


"The Devil" - Birth of a Vampire

by Dr_Foust



Category: Curse of Strahd - Fandom, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Barovia, Castle Ravenloft, Dark Fantasy, Gothic, M/M, Medieval, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 08:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Foust/pseuds/Dr_Foust
Summary: As his prey meander through the crypts of Ravenloft, The Devil relives his unspeakable, unforgivable origins.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	"The Devil" - Birth of a Vampire

High above the misty Barovian Valley, light and shadow coalesced in a terrific duel. Count Strahd von Zarovich, unmatched in power, had planned this all so meticulously. Something had gone awry, however, and in his confidence, The Devil found himself wrecklessly placed amidst the crypts and hiding from the Sun Sword's light like a cornered rat. Yes, a well-placed fireball would certainly seal the swordsman's fate... But something about this swordsman's well-anticipated presence had done away with the vampire's strategy entirely. The song of King Barov von Zarovich, the product of countless lifetimes of tactical genius, was now risking everything for something he'd succumbed to only once before: passion. Strahd knew he'd put his immortal reign on the line, all so he could taste this one warrior's fear--to feel their demise with his own two hands.

It had been 23 years since he'd discarded it last, but each time the Sun Sword's meddlesome, nauseating, gods-forsaken platinum hilt revealed itself, he'd become overwhelmed with the same feelings that drove him into darkness. In spite of all he'd reaped for it, Strahd Von Zarovich reeled from a 400-year-old wound that never healed. 

In his folly, The Devil once again saw the Castle as it was.

* * *

Scores of guests roam the palace. Strahd can remember so painfully little of his past--faces and voices gone like an oil painting smeared with varnish--yet he remembers the feelings of each memory all too well. Strahd remembers the days when the war and killing had come to an end, and a new chapter began: a chapter in which Strahd the Warrior could rest, and Strahd the King could blossom. His debut into courtly politics brought everything but the joy of a blooming garden, however--his rule feeling more like the plucking of weeds for all involved. In formal fashion, these guests were invited. Their presence, however, feels more like an infestation, as though he'd found Bucephalus's feedbag ill with rats. Strahd realizes that his distaste for courtly mannerisms and fine etiquette was not a symptom of his drive for conquest; rather, it was simply never in his palette to begin with. He'd hoped that their lavish praise and undying respect would feel like an extension of his conquest--another ten feet to his mounting pile of treasures. Instead, their interactions felt as labored as his own--a formality they ruefully swallowed in exchange for the privelege of living in Ravenloft, at the foot of the man who'd brought the Delmorean's to heel. A warm, vibrant sunset pours through the windows like water through a shattered dam. He'd spent so many years in Vampyr's grip that not even memories of the sun were joyful.

Count Strahd Von Zarovich, a living man, sits among his guests as candle light begins to shoulder the setting sun's burden. Guests swirl around him like droning waves--another smear on the painting--but Strahd is a statue amidst this frivolity, his gaze a morose, yet furious one. With so many details wiped away by time's unforgiving mist, all that is real to him are he, Tatyana, and Sergei. As though caught in the gaze of a basilisk, his body is frozen in a silent fit of jealous rage.

We see the same man in a heavy black cloak against a stark-white backdrop: the base of a snowy mountain. He dismounts his beloved horse, who had not yet been replaced by the unholy abomonination of the same name. Safe within a warm alcove and with adequate food, he leaves the steed behind to continue his journey on foot. In the dark years to follow, the steed's warm and steam-laden breaths would only be emulated by the flaming mane and hooves of his ever-faithful Nightmare.

Strahd climbs a windy, treacherous path up Mount Ghakis. The elves and hill-folk may have been of some service in finding the long-forgotten paths to the ancient power he sought, but his self-righteous confidence was a power of its own. There, mils beyond the ruins of old Delmorean watch-towers the tomes dubbed "Tsolenka Pass", he finds a temple. The writing is literally upon the stone walls, begging him to turn back for fear of the corruption that lies within. Further within, he finds a bargain for eternal life. Strahd sees his aged reflection in the amber sarcophogi. No price could be too high.

Within the halls of Castle Ravenloft, guests now fill the halls from wall to wall. Beautiful outfits upon beautiful people, reduced to blurs on nameless figures. Banners celebrate the joining of two houses: Von Zarovich, and Federovna. Happy guests chatter in his ear as Strahd listens to none of it. Within his cloak he nervously palms the black blade, warped and contorted like an ancient relic. The balde more befits a butcher than a combatant.

Where others stride, he trudges. His stature is awkward, and the tall warrior navigates the swarms of faceless guests that infest his home. They have come to pay their respects to the love that should have been his. The love that would soon _be_ his.

The black blade in hand, sweat coating his palms, and a nervous palor washing over his skin, Strahd parts the dark-oaken double doors to his master bedroom. Crimson floors, crimson drapes... a brilliant room for a brilliant man. It is the room he'd earned as conqueror of the valley, Lord of the castle--the room he has so humbly offered his brother Sergei to prepare for his special day.

There, his brother stands before that full-bodied mirror--a prize Strahd had won in his battles against the Delmoreans. Seeing his brother's reflection reminds Strahd of the youth he'd squandered, and the terms he'd been offered to have it back. Only when he'd taken the deal--that deal Sergei made him take! ...Only then did Strahd von Zarovich know the cost of his desires.

_'Slay one who loves you,'_ the vestige said. _'Drink their blood.'_

_'You shall die at the hands of one who hates you. In these two deaths, your fate will be sealed.'_

As the world around him becomes shades of grey, as his still-living heart pounds harder than any war-drum he had ever marched to--Sergei asked his help. He's so taken by his nerves that he cannot fasten his pendant around his neck.

With a wordless nod to his fumbling brother, Strahd approaches.

Standing behind his little brother, Strahd is a head taller than Sergei. He looks in the mirror at the old man he has become, and the angel his brother has remained.

Hot blood pours over his numb and trembling hand as the blade sinks into Sergei's throat. Strahd's other hand holds the boy's jaw as he struggled. Strahd's eyes remained locked with his own in the mirror. For just a moment, it is someone else killing his baby brother. Not him.

Not him.

His weight sinking to the floor, cradled in his elder brother's grip, Sergei's hands fumble to grip Strahd's collar. His panicked eyes say what his mouth cannot: they beg for help. Strahd's help.

_'Slay one who loves you,' _the vestige had said.

_'But how,' _The Devil wondered. _'__How could you love me?'_


End file.
